


sticks and stones may break thy bones

by nayt0reprince



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Mild Angst, Other, Pre-Relationship, alcohol use, feat. the whole party in one way or another, post ch. 3 therion spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 06:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16090349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: but words, kind and cruel, shall always mind thee.in which therion falls twice.





	sticks and stones may break thy bones

**Author's Note:**

> yeah I know this isn’t the fic I should be working on but this one kept pestering me so. here we are. Enjoy!

The seconds after the shove dragged on longer than Therion had ever experienced. There stood Darius - Darius, red hair billowing in the winds like kraken’s tendrils; Darius, dark eyes glimmering with delightful malice; Darius, calloused hands outstretched like an eager child begging for money; _Darius,_ who stepped away from the precipice, lips contorting into a vicious grin, a bellowing laughter bursting forth from his mouth. There stood Darius, with his dashing green cape aflutter. In tales Therion barely recounted from his youth, heroes often donned capes, often stood victorious over evil, often gave a virtuous moral when their stories concluded.

Today’s lesson, lovingly crafted from the jutting jagged rocks below and a mingling bittersweet taste of last night’s shared mead spiced with a dash of betrayal, was to never trust another person like a damned fool ever again.

 _I simply used you. You meant nothing to me. You_ are _nothing to me. You are nothing to_ anyone.

Tension stretched like a string pulled too taut. Therion gasped, and it snapped, washing him with cold panic as he fell, and fell, and fell, clawing at air to grab onto something, anything, to save himself.

_Nothing but a stepping stone, and little else._

It snapped again, this time with a reverberating, _crunching_ cacophony Therion felt throughout his body. His eyes widened. His lips parted as he let out a low, dreadful groan that sounded more liquid than words. Overhead, the resident Great Condors circled, and his hazey stare followed them, watching them go around and around. Once he died, there would be no gravestone, nor grave - only a meal for the birds, bones picked clean and discarded into the shallow muddied brook.

It hurt. Dying hurt. His fingers twitched by his side. His body burned from the pain. His matted hair clung to his forehead. He must have looked awful; no passerby would spare him a second glance after seeing such a wretched, mangled mess of what was once a person. Not that anyone ever wandered through the lower parts of the Cliftlands, anyhow - it lead to nowhere other than darker caves where nary a soul wandered back out of.

He was alone. Alone, and without a friend in the world. Alone, and without Darius.

Somehow, that hurt more than dying.

His eyes stung. He blinked. They continued to sting, to water, to pour out from him so quickly and without any sign of stopping, dribbling toward the brook. His body wracked, and his broken ribs dug and scratched at his heart, pumping mercilessly to keep him alive. Why bother? Why _bother,_ when the world gave him so little reason to go forward? Why not simply close his eyes for good?

He was never one for listening to reason, though. So instead, with a shuddering breath, he moved one arm - blessed his dominant arm remained relatively unscathed, sans a few bruises - and dragged his bleeding husk through mud and rock. Shadows passed over him as day crept into twilight. A nail broke clean as he dug into the earth, pulling himself closer, and closer, and closer to the pass.

It hurt, but he needed to stay alive. In a kingdom of thieves, where law became irrelevant, it depended on _him_ to see Darius get his just desserts.

If he ever saw him again.

But that dangling possibility, that teasing promise of perhaps _one day_ Therion would get his chance, was more than enough to keep pulling his useless body through the gods knew _what_ toward civilization. Even as night fell, even as his arm grew tired, even as he stopped moving altogether, he would - he definitely would - find Darius again. Somehow. Someday. On his own.

Footsteps padded closer, and Therion lifted his head. A man came to a sudden stop, eyebrows lifting. His hands immediately patted at his satchel - an apothecary, possibly, if the typical green ( _green._ Green, like that cape, like the leaves stuffed in Darius’s pockets, like) garb indicated anything.

“Please,” Therion gurgled with a voice and words foreign on his tongue, “please. Help me.”

(The dream ended the same way every time: Therion sitting up in a worn-down inn’s bed, hand outstretched to a faceless stranger lost in his aged memories. Across the room, Olberic grunted in his sleep and rolled over. Therion shook his head, glanced at the bangle ensnared around his wrist, and tried to get comfortable. 

But after _those_ dreams, sleep always evaded him.)

*

The merry band of misfits, as Cyrus often purported their group to be, was not really Therion’s style. He preferred the freedoms of traversing alone, without anyone patting his shoulder after a fight or anyone pestering him with nagging questions like “Are you all right?” or “How are you feeling?” However, the mission he undertook required more traveling than usual; Bolderfall to Noblecourt alone would take at _least_ a month, and only if he covered ground faster than a Sea Birdian could snatch up a beached fish. Furthermore, the monsters that plagued the nooks and crannies along the way would grow stronger, and, while he was no slouch in the swiftness department, taking on three to four creatures at once would quickly exhaust him.

So, against all better judgment, in spite of the past whispering to him that relying on others will simply burn him again, he decided to leave the Ravus Mansion with people he could only call “eclectic.” Eclectic, but strong - having both a huntress and a warrior to dispatch their foes really saved Therion the aches and pains of doing it himself.

It _also_ meant, unfortunately, having to take the long way around to get to anywhere he needed to go, as everyone had different agendas. Which then, in turn, meant spending more time together with the others, which _then_ turned into knowing just a little _too_ much about each of them than he wanted.

For example, the group’s unofficial leader, a jubilant girl he often called the goody two-shoe treasure gremlin, was harder to ignore than he initially thought. Sure, she loathed his profession, bickered and bantered and berated his methods, and huffed whenever he called her said-nickname. Soon enough, however, “gremlin” turned into “Tressa.” Tressa bit her bottom lip when worried, readjusted her hat when thinking, and batted her eyes when bartering. Tressa liked the color yellow, and lit up like the sands waltzing in the Sunlands after he gave her topaz necklace he “happened” upon.

And it wasn’t just her, either. The whole lot of them needled and wedged through the mortared walls protecting the little remains of his hoping heart. Bookworm became Cyrus, whose stories, factual or fictitious, whittled the long nights away; Ms. Saint became Ophilia, who nicked and carved into apples that turned into red bunnies for snack time; Sword Unbending became Olberic, with broad shoulders an injured Therion would from time to time find himself clinging to while fleeing a fight; Speaken Badden became H’annit, who loved a good joke and got Therion to laugh more times than he would like to admit; Twinkle Toes became Primrose, who wandered with him across cobblestone bridges to chit-chat in the twilight hours.

But the worst of them all, even worse than Tressa, was Doormat. Doormat, with his easy smiles and drawling voice, who didn’t always know the right things to say but made up for it with his bewildering earnestness. Doormat, with his stupid hair and worn-out ( _green,_ like - ) clothes and clutching to his best friend’s satchel like the gods themselves bestowed it unto him. He caused the group to stop the most, tending to patients for not a single leaf. By the time they left the town, Doormat would know most of the residents by name, and the children always, _always_ came to see him off. Therion could pick up his laugh all the way across town, loud and bubbling and infectious.

Doormat remained Doormat, because somewhere in the pit of Therion’s stomach, he _knew._ He _knew_ Doormat’s innate disposition could be dangerous to someone like him. While the others brought chisels and chipped carefully at Therion’s walls, Doormat would bring a rope, scale himself up to the top of the tower, and take a sledgehammer to the roof before dropping himself into the darkened cavity. Therefore, Therion kept his distance with curt replies and shrugging off casual touches, thinking it would be enough to keep Doormat away. (Or, more accurately, to keep _himself_ away from Doormat.)

So of course it wasn’t.

Doormat drank like the best of them, gulping down backwoods pisswater as if it were some holy nectar. Two mugs became three to four and counting. How Doormat could do it, no one knew. Therion could barely manage two without his face flushing and tongue loosening. And Doormat seemed to know this, always offering to buy drinks with his whopping amounts of cash overflowing from his empty pockets. And Therion (who kicked his better judgment to the curb it seemed) would always take up the offer and end up paying for it.

And they would talk. A lot. Too much.

“C’mon, you gotta have _some_ daring escapades, right?” Doormat nudged Therion’s shoulder. He grinned. “I’ve babbled like a brook all night, and I betcha _my_ stories ain’t as half as interesting as yours. All them infamous stories about a white-haired thief floating ‘round town gotta mean _something,_ yeah?”

Therion set down his mug a little too hard and nudged Doormat’s shoulder back. “I don’t know about that. You tell _me_ what you think I’ve done, and I’ll tell you just how wrong you are.”

Doormat rapped his fingers along the countertop as he hummed. His head tilted in thought; a light sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, the bar just a smidge too warm for comfort. “Mm,” he finally said, pursing his lips, “you scaled a church and snuck in through an opened window in broad daylight, snatched a blessed something-or-other from the altar, and sold it back to them later the same day?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Therion flagged down the bartender and gestured to his mug. He took a swig afterward and matched Doormat’s grin. “I walked in through the front door. No need to scale anything. And I didn’t sell it to the same church - I went to the neighboring town and made a couple of good leaves off of it.” Morality dictated that stealing from a church, of all things, was rather shady, but considering how the head priest had wandering hands on his tutees, Therion considered that heist as a bit of karma. “Next.”

“Through the front door? Ain’t you bold! Lemme think.” Doormat’s eyes sparkled - Therion could all but see the wild fantasies his brain conjured up behind them. “How ‘bout the rumor saying someone emptied the whole armory in Bolderfall?”

“Not me. That was some rebels trying to start an uprising against the rich.” Instead, Therion filched the weapons _from_ said-rebels and turned them in to the guards, which wasn’t usually something he would do. However, the revolutionaries knew nothing about Ms. Ravus and Heathcote; if anything, he spared them the embarrassment of getting outwitted by a mere butler and the impending jail time thereafter. He itched the skin around his bangle. “Next.”

“Aw, what? I thought for sure it was you.” Doormat scratched the back of his head and laughed (he did that whenever he was either embarrassed or worried, Therion noticed). He slouched forward onto the countertop, propping his head on his folded arms. Therion looked away (Doormat always stared too much). “Okay, how ‘bout this one: you sent a calling card to this large group of thieves before looting them with style. _And_ ,” he added as Therion stilled, mug pressed to his lips, eyes widening as the bar suddenly grew cold, “you did it while wearing a cool cape. Yeah?”

(The shouting grew distant as the two fled, their latest haul stuffed in Darius’s bags. Therion lept over stone fences and weaved through narrowed alleyways, following Darius’s green cape like a will-o’-wisp. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t _believe_ how simple that was, Darius at the helm of their operation, Therion following up behind. It would be the talk of the town tomorrow, how just _two_ people outsmarted an entire gang. They were so cocky to even send the gang a warning, as Darius wanted an “extra challenge.”

Therion wanted to laugh. They did it, just the two of them, against all odds.)

“Therion?”

(They drank until the wee hours of the morning, stumbling over each other, laughing with one another. Darius clung to Therion’s ratted scarf before mumbling, “We gotta get you a new one of these, partner.” Step step. Therion almost tripped on the uneven streets, wobbling to and fro as they somehow made it to the inn. One bed, he heard Darius say, and the key glinted copper as they staggered upstairs, arm in arm, Darius’s red hair appearing finer than any rubies Therion could steal, his dark eyes warm and booze-breath palpable. Darius dropped the key along the way, but it mattered little as Therion simply lockpick the door. Even when drunk, he could still do it with artisanal ease.

“You always were good with yer hands, partner,” Darius murmured, teetering through the door. They shuffled toward the bed, step step. It felt like an eternity and Therion’s blood burned with anticipation. Darius weakly kicked the door shut behind them before they fell into an entanglement of limbs, basking in a collective high from accomplishing their biggest heist yet. Therion wanted more. He wanted more of this, more of Darius, and his typically sticky fingers struggled with the damned cape’s stupid clasp. 

“Need to buy _you_ a new one of these,” Therion whispered, and Darius laughed as the cape cascaded onto the floor, shortly joined by the scarf.)

“Therion.” Al-- _Doormat_ gripped his shoulder, squeezing firmly. When did it get so damn bright? Therion’s head spun. The room blended together as he took in a few sharp breaths, his clammy palms clinging to the wooden mug. “Hey. You okay? Did you drink too much?”

“Don’t,” Therion spat out, shrugging Doormat’s hand off of him. “Don’t bother.”

_You are nothing to me._

He needed to get out of there. He tugged on his scarf and slid off the barstool, slamming the mug hard enough to attract other patron’s eyes. Dizzy. He left too many leaves on the counter in his hurry and headed toward the door. Step step. He tottered to one side, body slamming into another. Doormat. His concerned expression was picture-perfect enough to serve as an example for the Orsterran World Dictionary beside the word “worried.” Too genuine. Too sincere. When was the last time anyone looked at him with such a face?

“C’mon, buddy.” He slung Therion’s arm over his shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed.”

_Nothing, nothing, nothing -_

“Let _go_ of me.”

“Not happenin’. If Prim found out I let you stumble through Saintsbridge completely plastered and alone, she’d knock me senseless. Y’know, I think her training with Olberic just made her _more_ scary.” Doormat glanced at the other patrons and gave them a sheepish grin. He pulled Therion a little closer, a little too familiarly, and escorted him out of the tavern. “Which is sayin’ something, all things considered.”

The nighttime air bit at Therion’s nose. Springtime thaw couldn’t come fast enough - he never liked the cold. It reminded him of huddling away in the dark, passerbys sparing him pitied looks as they made their home. An empty stomach and emptier pockets. Only those looking for something from him bothered to stop, with pseudo-charming smiles and false promises of a free lunch.

“What,” Therion said, “do you want.”

“What’s that? What do I _want?_ ” Doormat’s eyes fixated upward. Knowing him, he was probably counting the stars, or wondering about something dumb like if life existed outside of their world or whatever. “Well, right now, I wanna go to bed and wake up without a hangover.”

“That’s not what I meant.” With concentrated effort, Therion yanked himself away from Doormat’s grasp and stumbled backwards until his back pressed up against a wall. The crickets and the nearby roaring river were much too loud - a nagging buzz in Therion’s drunken mind struggling to spit out venom instead of heartache. “What do you want from me. Why are you doing,” he gestured between them, “this.”

Doormat’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I follow ya there, Therion. Why do I have to want somethin’ from you other than a drinking buddy and some companionship?”

“There’s _always_ something!” Maybe he did drink too much. His voice cracked, and Doormat flinched, holding up his hands defensively, mouth starting to move to offer some god damned reassurances Therion didn’t want to - couldn’t want to - wouldn’t want to - hear. “Don’t give me that crap. Don’t you dare. I know how this works. I’ve been there, done that. You’re just taking - you’re just too _stupid_ to take the faster approach. What _is_ it. Stop leading me on and spit it _out_ already.” It sounded better in his head. Saying it aloud seemed a lot more pathetic than he thought. This was _Doormat,_ for gods’ sake; the man never asked for a single freaking leaf for his work, never asked for anything other than a drink and a story. He was an idiot. There was no way he could want anything from a thief in the first place, but Therion shoved all reasoning to the side in favor of what made more sense to himself. He needed to peg Doormat into a familiar hole, because if Doormat didn’t fit (like the others in their party, his drunken haze realized with great horror), then Therion had to confront the truth behind _why._

(Why. Why he slowed his pace to match Doormat’s, who strode like a lackadaisical cat behind the rest. Why he went to Doormat instead of Ophilia for some hands-on treatment instead of magic. Why he started picking Doormat to share a room together at inns. Why he fought close by him, kept an eye on him, protected him - 

In all his efforts to stay away, Therion continued and kept continuing to do the total opposite of his intentions.)

Silence stretched between them like the deepening rift Therion desperately tried to dig between them with his bare hands and sheer stubbornness. But Doormat simply stepped over the flimsy hole and took Therion’s arm, slung it over his shoulders once more, and shook his head.

“Shucks,” he said, tone dipping into a sadness Therion instantly started to loathe, “I didn’t think I made you feel that way. If I did, I’m sorry.”

His eyes stung. He didn’t dare blink. He turned his face toward the shadows as they walked, step step, back to the inn.

“You’re a real cool guy,” Doormat continued. “And your sense of humor is great, even if it’s a bit dark. I just wanted to spend some time with you, is all. Since we’re traveling together.” He paused. Therion could feel his stare on the back of his head. “If I pressed too hard, I really didn’t mean to. I just wanted to get to know you better.”

“I’m a thief,” Therion groused. “What’s there more to know.”

“I dunno. Things you like, things you don’t. What apples you like best. What you think about Saintsbridge, Bolderfall… Which you prefer more, sunny weather or rainy. The person behind all them legends. What makes you, you.” He laughed. “I know that’s a pretty lame answer, but really, it’s all I got. I just like being with you.”

(“I just liked using you,” Darius declared, stepping forward. Therion stepped back, hearing rocks crumble off the cliff-face from his weight. “I didn’t care for much else for ya.”)

Too much. Doormat’s honesty radiated warmth along Therion’s side, its closeness burning him. The tower’s ceiling began to cave in, Doormat standing on the ledge, peering down into the abyss, ready to take a leap of faith. Therion needed to stop him, to say something, anything, to prevent it. But words refused to come, just drunken, nonsensical slurs of defiance, only met with gentle laughter and a shake of a head. The innkeeper smiled at them, handed them a key, and wished them goodnight.

The door closed behind them. Therion found himself in bed moments later, blankets neatly tucked around him, his body turned to the side. Doormat said something about “preventing you from chokin’ on your own vomit,” but the rest blurred together in a mesh of exhaustion and a heartbeat too loud. He hoped Doormat couldn’t hear it.

“If it bothers you a lot, Therion,” he said, words almost lost to the sounds of rustling sheets from the bed on the other side of the room, “just let me know, and I’ll leave you be. I promise.”

“Then leave me be,” Therion mumbled. Doormat laughed.

“Maybe answer me when you’re not drunk, sheesh.”

The answer wouldn’t change either way, Therion wanted to retort. Instead, he stared at Doormat’s back. He swallowed down his answer and closed his eyes. 

He would just have to tell him some other time.

*

Some other time never really came, not officially. 

Therion strode alongside Olberic as the group ventured through the winding cliffs. Quarrycrest was still yet another couple days’ worth of traveling, much to his dismay. He gripped his worn bag’s strap while walking as far from the edge as possible, gaze fixated along the rocky mountainsides. Nothing but unpleasant memories blew through the large crevices, where jagged rocks reached up to the sky like mangled fingers. The unsultry feelings churning in his stomach only grew worse whenever he happened to glance behind him, feeling Doormat’s puppy-eyed but understanding stare along the back of his neck. Since that night in Saintsbridge, Therion kept his distance, and Doormat never pushed the matter.

It sucked. He scowled at his feet, kicking a rock out of his way. He never was one for _starting_ conversations, and if Doormat wouldn’t start one, then Therion certainly couldn’t. What was there to say? “Hey, sorry for avoiding you for practically the past week and a half, my pride was too scared to admit that I--”

That he what? 

A hand slapped the center of his back, pushing him lightly. He let out a rather undignified squawk before whipping his head, a flurry of unsavory words ready to lash out at his assailant, but found himself choking on them when Tressa gave him a wink.

“Never thought _I’d_ be able to scare you witless!” She sidled up to him, her comically large bag jingling with each step. Her grin widened. “Something on your mind, _hmm?_ ”

Ugh. He rolled his eyes. “What’s it to you.”

“Oh, you know.” She whistled and took large, dramatic steps, kicking one foot up high, then the other, in some sort of bizarre march. “I just like to check up on my rival every now and then. Especially since these past few days, I’ve been winning.” Her knowing chortle made his skin crawl. “Getting caught by even the most simple-minded folk! Walking into things! I’ve been making deals left and right, and your pockets are more empty than I’ve ever seen them. Meaning!” She jabbed a forefinger at his face. “Meaning _something_ is wrong. Don’t say I’m not right! I’ve been watching. Carefully. _Veeeeeery_ carefully.”

“Because _that’s_ not creepy at all,” he retorted. 

“Excuse _you,_ but one of us has to keep track of all our monetary inputs and outputs! Budgeting for eight people is _much_ harder than you think. And while I _hate_ what you do,” her nose wrinkled, “we’d be in a _lot_ more trouble without your, uh, gifts. So!”

She latched an arm around his neck and jabbed his side with her elbow.

“So I gotta make sure your little angst-spell ends quick, or we’re gonna be up a creek without a paddle when it comes to money. As much as I _love_ winning,” her eyes sparkled with a peculiar deviousness, “I wanna do it fair and square.”

“Win _what?_ I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” He shoved her off and folded his arms across his chest. “And it’s none of your business.”

She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing in thought as she adjusted her hat, and then snapped her fingers. “I know!” She lowered her voice and cusped a hand around her mouth, whispering as though they were in a conspiracy. “You two must’ve had a _fight._ You and Alfyn.”

He stiffened. “Again, none of your business.”

“Oho, so I’m right! You’ve gotten all prickly.” She poked his cheeks. Did she not know anything about personal space? She was almost as bad as Doormat. Her expression shifted a little, brows perching upward almost apologetically. “Everyone’s noticed, you know. How you two aren’t really talking anymore. He’s gotten all sad and you’ve become sloppy. Why not kiss and make up so you two can get back to normal already?”

“For the _last time,_ ” he said, voice rising, “it doesn’t concern _you.”_

“So long as you’re coming with us, pal, it does concern me. It’s worrying everyone. It’s even worrying you. And since this is the Great Tressa Expedition, I want everyone to be happy in one way or another, come thieves or high water! Or, uh. You know what I mean.” 

“Can’t you go harp at someone else?” He tried to sound more biting, but it came out more tired than peeved. Tressa tapped her forefinger along her chin before nodding.

“I’ll make sure Philly peels some extra apple slices for you today,” she mused. “Gotta turn that frown a smidgen less upside down! You should be excited. We’re going to the _mines._ Just think of all the shinies we’re gonna find there! And the adventures! Don’t you wanna see Philly get scared from telling ghost stories in mineshafts?”

“Excuse me,” Ophilia interjected, straightening her shoulders, “the last time we told ghost stories, _you_ were the one shivering behind _me_ , if I remember correctly.”

“Details, shmetails! The point is, it’s gonna be _f--_ ”

Tressa’s prattling got cut short when she walked right into Olberic and stumbled backward, bringing both hands up to her nose. 

“Ow! What the heck? Olberic, why’d you--”

Olberic held up a finger. The party collectively stopped, a small chill running through them. Therion pulled his scarf a little closer, his eyes narrowing. The winds sounded wrong, irregular and cutting. It howled one moment, stilled another, and continued the next, like a heartbeat floundering to pump blood. His fingers twitched around his knife’s hilt as his heels dug into the ground.

A high-pitched _screech_ reverberated throughout the canyon. Great. Just what he ordered: fresh borderline-unedible bird with a side of trauma. He hated these stupid things, how they leered from dead branches and shrieked bloody murder whenever something half-dead scuttled by. But this one - this one looked much, _much_ larger than a typical Bolderfall Condor. Its wingspan cast shadows onto all of them, blotting out the sky with blacks and browns. Its beady eyes darted back and forth between them, as if uncertain which one it wanted to feast upon first.

“Getten back,” H’annit commanded, already firing her first of many arrows. It nicked the oversized-chicken’s wing, which only made it angier. The blood-curdling cry it emitted nearly deafened them; Therion covered both ears and gritted his teeth. Was it the territory’s king? It made sense - they already fended off many _other_ birds in the area. Maybe it was sick of their shit and wanted the job to kill them done right.

Olberic grunted and unfastened his spear. “You four.” He gestured to Ophilia, Cyrus, Primrose, and Therion. “You go on ahead. We will dispatch of this fiend and catch up with you later.”

No need to tell him twice. Therion, following the other three, ducked and ran. The path thinned out some, narrowing their maneuverability, but that mattered little. The four who stayed behind would distract that damn fowl long enough for them to reach the other si--

“Therion!”

He looked back. Rookie mistake, one long ago nitpicked out of him by Darius, all but forgotten when Doormat shouted his name. A tempest howled around him - the bird was smarter than it looked, settling for the weaker meats scurrying away rather than the ones who fared a much better chance at survival - and disrupted his balance. His hands slipped from the rock wall, his eyes squeezed shut, and his feet shifted one, two, three steps back.

The fourth step teetered him over the edge.

Time suspended the immediate moment afterward. Deja vu washed over him, his outstretched hands, his windswept hair, his fluttering scarf. For a moment, he could see Darius’s figure, jeering at him like one of those condors. Sunlight kissed Therion’s glinting bangle, a farewell gift for his impending demise. His bones already ached, even before the impact. They remembered last time, how that apothecary mended them back together in some slipshod attempt to keep Therion and his insides in one piece. The scars carved along his chest and across his bad eye itched in anticipation, ready to split open once more.

Karma. This was karma for getting cocky, for thinking he could ever stand up to Darius again, for thinking for a fleeting moment that maybe, _maybe_ he found a place to belong with these fools. (Took one to know one.) Trust never got you anywhere. Didn’t he already learn that? (Then why did it hurt worse than last time?)

_Nothing to anyone, nothing, nothing still, nobody -_

His shoulder let out a cringe-inducing _pop_ when it dislocated, his body dangling like a marionette over the ravine. For a moment, the pain didn’t register; he should still be falling as Darius patted himself on the back as a reward for his victory. Instead, he was staring back up at someone who didn’t know any better and couldn’t take “no” for an answer.

“Alfyn,” he breathed, a quiet awe and surprise escaping him.

“Don’t let go if ya know what’s good for you!” Alfyn’s muscles bulged from his exerted efforts, sweaty hands digging into Therion’s forearm. The condor let out a disappointed growl, only for its attention to be stolen by H’annit’s arrows pelting it. Alfyn managed a reassuring smile in spite of everything. “I got ya. You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He pulled. Therion bit his bottom lip to muffle his pained grunt. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. No one should rescue a nobody. But Alfyn pulled and heaved and dragged Therion back to safety, his messy hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, his green jacket ( _green,_ like Alfyn’s stupid last name, a color Therion thought he’d never associate a certain gentleness to) slightly tattered from the sharp winds. They took a collective breath, backs pressed to the cliffside. Alive. He was _alive._

“Hold still,” Alfyn said after a moment, almost drowned out by another deafening, pained roar from the now-defeated condor. He gripped Therion’s arm, and, without much warning, popped the shoulder back into place.

“ _Shit._ ” Therion rubbed his shoulder until the tingling sensation died down. He exhaled - he lived another day (take _that,_ Darius) - before noticing Alfyn was staring at him, expression blank. It made him uneasy. “What. Paint a picture, it lasts longer.”

“Nothin’, nothin’. It’s just…” Alfyn scratched his cheek while glancing away. “That’s the first time I think you ever said my name, is all.”

A different tingling feeling spread from Therion’s chest to his toes, eyes widening at the realization. Oh. _Oh._ He broke his own rules, _again._ And now Alfyn - Doorm - _Alfyn_ was smiling like a dolt because of it. 

“All it took was a little near-death experience, yeah? Guess we should get into trouble more often.” He laughed and pulled Therion to his feet, hand lingering just a touch too long for the simple gesture. If he squinted, he could spot the faint pink dusting sprinkled onto Alfyn’s ears. Therion chose to believe it was from the beginnings of a sunburn.

“Don’t be an idiot. You could’ve died, doing something like that. If you knew what’s best for you, next time?” He pulled his hand away. “Just let me fall.”

Alfyn let out a horrified gasp. “Therion! I would _never._ Don’t ever suggest somethin’ like that again. Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs, and I know you probably don’t like me,” his tone sounded a tinge sad, twisting Therion’s stomach into knots, “but I ain’t _ever_ gonna just let you get hurt or worse. Not on my watch, at any rate.”

The question lurched from his tongue before Therion could catch himself. “Why.”

“Why?” Alfyn echoed. “Why _else?_ You’re important to me, Therion. You’re my,” Therion raised his shoulders defensively, a halfhearted effort to reject Alfyn’s words, but it mattered little when Alfyn said, “friend, aren’t you?”

Friend. Darius never referred to Therion like that, only as “partner” or any other variation of the term. In hindsight, Darius kept him at an arm’s length emotionally while hovering close (too close) physically, all to keep Therion in check. A means to an end. But all Therion brought to the table for Alfyn was simply more trouble, no benefits other than shared drinks at the tavern (not even that anymore, not lately). And yet. And _yet_ Alfyn still called him his _friend?_ Even after the cold shoulder and silent treatment? _How?_

“But I guess that’s a little assumin’ of me, ain’t it.” Alfyn dropped his stare to the ground. “I’m sorry if I keep on ignorin’ your boundaries.”

Ignoring? If anything, Alfyn respected them more than anyone else in their party. He respected them so much, in fact, Therion hated every second of it (deep down. Deep, deep down). His brow furrowed as he nudged Alfyn’s arm.

“You’re fine.” It was the closest to an _I’m sorry_ he could get. He hoped Alfyn understood. “Don’t stress it.”

A pause. Alfyn tugged on his satchel’s strap before nodding. “Then,” he asked, lowering his voice and tilting his head to one side, “we’re good?”

“Yes. Yeah. We’re…” Therion ran a hand through his hair and nodded. “We’re good. ...Thanks, by the way. For, you know.” He gestured to the cliff. “That.”

“You can thank me later tonight when we go out for drinks.” Alfyn winked, and the unwanted tension between them dissolved like half-remembered nightmares after a cup of coffee. Therion ducked his head to hide his small smile.

All was good again.

“Oh my god!” Tressa - because of _course_ she was watching - pointed at them. “You were smiling! Did I hallucinate that! Quick, someone pinch me! Are you really Therion? Did your almost-fall actually kill you and your body got possessed by a ghost?”

“Knock it off,” Therion grumbled, but Alfyn laughed and draped an arm over his shoulders.

“Who knows?” He smiled at Tressa. “Maybe he is.”

“Oh no! Ophilia, quick! Can’t you dispel ghosts? Don’t worry, Therion!” Tressa tugged on his wrist to pull him along. “Help is on the way! We’ll get you back to normal, lickity-split!”

Therion rolled his eyes. “I’m not possessed.”

“That’s what he _wants_ you to think,” Alfyn teased, poking his cheek.

“You know what? I changed my mind. Just drop me off the cliff. That’s more bearable than all your nonsense,” he retorted.

“You know you love us, Ther.”

“Can it. I do not.”

How did they do it? He actually felt good. Pleasant. 

He might have been a nobody to Darius, sure.

But to these idiots? He glanced at Alfyn, who glanced back and grinned. The pleasantness spread to his face, turning them red, and he let out a huff of feigned annoyance.

_I’m a somebody._


End file.
